


100 Percent of the Time Stiles Can Mostly Manage All By Himself

by salamandererg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, High School, I Don't Even Know, Made up creatures, Mentions of Buffy, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 02, Stiles and Derek have a moment, Stiles and Scott have a moment, Stiles-centric, Vomiting, but it's basically Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 15:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15687882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamandererg/pseuds/salamandererg
Summary: All Stiles could think of in this moment, as he was huddled in the janitor’s closet, was that fourteen-year-old Stiles had wished that his high school Back to School Night would be like the one on Buffy.You know, where the vampires launch an all out attack and eat most of the staff.





	100 Percent of the Time Stiles Can Mostly Manage All By Himself

This.

This situation right now would be a perfect example of ‘ _Be Careful What You Wish For_ ’.

Because all Stiles could think of, as he was huddled in the janitor’s closet, armed with a mop and some disinfectant, waiting for the growls and hissing to cease outside the door, was that fourteen-year-old Stiles had wished that his high school Back to School Night would be like the one on Buffy.

You know, where the vampires launch an all out attack and eat most of the staff.

Except, the universe had seen fit to give Stiles whatever the hell those things were outside the door.

And instead of one slayer, Stiles did have two werewolves (okay, maybe _five-to-six_ if he was stretching it—to be honest Stiles didn’t really count any of the others except for Scott and Derek, and, again with the honesty, Derek only counted because he had the Alpha powers).

Except, Stiles currently had no werewolves at the moment because he had the brilliant idea to duck into a supply closet that was barely big enough to fit him and now seemed to be awaiting certain death. Where exactly had Scott gone again, and why was he not sharing in the Stiles/Closet quality time?

Oh yeah, he had to find Allison, who was on the other side of the school.

Never mind that Allison was fully capable of handling herself, seeing as she was with her father at the moment and carried a _mini-freakin’-crossbow_ in her purse.

Whereas, Stiles…Stiles had cleaning supplies. And a mop.

Which might have been enough for Buffy, but was kind of a no-go for Stiles. He would have been better off with a nail file.

Stiles couldn’t hear anymore growling out in the hall and risked a tiny peek out of the closet.

Coast seemed to be clear…oh, never mind, the first one had only left to give his friend an invitation to the ‘Let’s Kill Stiles Gruesomely’ party. One more was now coming down, the two creatures barely fitting together in the halls with their claws scraping up the linoleum floor. They sniffed at the bottom of each door, looking for stragglers, though Stiles knew that he was the only one in this hallway—seeing as he and Isaac (who wasn’t that bad a guy when he wasn’t giving everyone creeper stares and beating up teammates for rave tickets) had made sure to evacuate everyone out.

Stiles shut the door as fast as he could, as quietly as he could and began to freak out.

Scott, he needed to call Scott.

Except, history had taught him that Scott didn’t always pick up when Stiles needed him to. However, Stiles had already pressed his best friend’s name and started thinking up a plan for himself as he patiently waited for Scott to not answer.

As expected, the line rung out and Stiles, just for posterity, left a whispered, scathing/whiney/panicked voice mail that they could hopefully, if Stiles’ survived this situation, look back on and laugh about. Even if Stiles did insult Scott’s manhood. And might have let the phrase ‘Bros before Hos’ slip out—he’ll deal with that later. 

Again, hopefully.

But first he needed to deal with getting out of this closet.

‘What do I have, Stilinski,’ Stiles looked around: cleaning chemicals, mops, brooms, toilet paper, paper towels, a bong—‘A bong? What kind of staff do we employ around here, geriatric psychos, verbal abusers, _whatever_ the hell Ms. Morrell is, and now druggies?’—tissues, cleaning rags, extra chemistry flasks, a tube of lipstick, and…bingo.

Hairspray.

Because that was exactly what Stiles needed right now, to tighten up his ‘do.

‘Alright,’ Stiles shook himself, ‘What Would Buffy Do? What Would Buffy Do, Stiles? You know this, you got this. She would, she would pick herself up by her bootstraps and go out and pulverize those motherf—but that is not an option for you Stiles, because you are human and have tiny human muscles.’

Stiles let out a huge breath and looked up, praying for a vent. And there was one, Stiles was just going to have to turn into Thumbelina to fit through it.

Stiles looked around the closet again, the cleaning chemicals would be awesome if only Stiles had a lighter to make a fire—were those matches?

Stiles grabbed the tiny cardboard box and kissed them, likening the rattling inside to a choir of angels.

One of Stiles Stilinski’s Super Special Molotov Cleaning Cocktails coming right up.

And yeah, it may not have been as sophisticated as Lydia’s had been the _other_ time they had been trapped in school with a monster, but Stiles figured it would get the job done. Or, it would do no damage at all to the creature, but endanger everyone else because now _it would be on fire_.

Yeah, Stiles did not want to be the one who would have to take credit for that:

‘ _We were winning, till_ Stiles _had to go and light ‘em on fire._ ’

‘ _Yep, turned out they_ liked _fire_.’

Or, that’s how the conversation might go, if all of them made it out of here alive.

Stiles, for one was banking on getting out of here alive, with a little help from the tried-and-true plan of ‘Kill It, Kill It With Fire’. Fire and…perhaps these huge jugs of bleach and ammonia.

That would be perfect to wonk out the creatures’ senses. Might give him enough time to actually light them on fire without being charged head on.

\--

(Later, Stiles would admit to himself that he had not thought out exactly how he was going to get out of the hallway while slowly being poisoned by sodium hypochlorite and two giant beasts slamming themselves into the wall as they quickly burned to death.

Stiles really did not want to burn to death.)

Correction.

The sensory confusion brought on by the mixture of bleach and ammonia lasted for a few seconds and then all hell broke loose. The creatures were obviously affected, scratching at their noses with huge paws and baring their teeth at the ground, snapping at nothing. Then they started smashing their heads against the walls and each other, small nips becoming ferocious bites. Stiles jerked back as their huge bodies rolled through the hallway, and one of his (thankfully unlit) Molotov cocktails slipped from his hands, shattering on the floor and coating his Converse.

The two creatures spun toward the sound, and all Stiles could hear was a litany of curses in his head while he tried and failed to light at least one of the matches.

“Stupid, stupid idiot, light, catch on fire, damn it—”

The match lit up, sputtering, but there and Stiles barely had to touch it to the ratty cleaning rag before it went up in flames, practically blinding him.

Stiles threw it as close to one of the hounds as he possibly could, pleased when it caught it right in the front paw. Then the entire leg went up and with the chemicals on the ground, it seemed like the whole floor was a living flame. The fire spread fast, faster than Stiles could run from, sprinting as close to the wall as he could, covering his mouth with his shirt sleeve and squinting against the smoke and bright flame. He was nearing the stairwell when one of the hounds tumbled in front of him, blocking his escape, yet not seeming to notice he was there. Stiles couldn’t go back, it was a dead end, and most of the hallway was on fire—he would die if he went back.

So, the only choice was to keep going forward.

Stiles rushed around the hound, barely noticing his lungs burning every time he breathed or how his eyes felt like they were drying out of their sockets, he didn’t even know that his jeans had caught on fire till he was down the stairs and something very fast had slammed him to the floor.

\--

Stiles had never been so happy to see Derek Hale in his life. To be more specific, Derek Hale’s jacket—to be even more specific, Derek Hale’s jacket putting out the flames on his jeans.

Derek Hale himself, however, did not look pleased in the slightest. Once he was sure the flames had been put out completely, he dragged Stiles (literally dragged him, caveman style, by his feet) to the opposite end of the hallway, safely away from the flames and rampaging creatures.

“What the hell were you trying to do?” Derek said lowly, ignoring Stiles’ coughing fit and looking around to make sure they hadn’t been followed down the hall.

One monster was on the tile floor, its huge body heaving with weak, shallow breaths. It had gotten the worst of the fire, it’s fur had burned away and the rest of its skin was either char-black or oozing red. Derek had to look away quickly. The second one had, thankfully, ran blindly down the other end of the hallway, banging against the lockers in an attempt to relieve the pain of the sting of the chemicals in its nose and the burns along its side. That was one almost down and another incapacitated enough that it would be easy to bring down if Derek could regroup with some of his pack.

Derek looked at Stiles with something that could be called ‘minutely impressed’ until Stiles had gag-coughed in his face. Now he just looked normal, i.e. pissed, with a side helping of broody.

“I,” Stiles tried to force out, but his lungs weren’t having it. “I—”

Stiles doubled over with wracking coughs that made his whole body convulse, out of the corner of his eye he could see Derek’s shoes coming closer. Then another set of coughs made his eyes squeeze shut and all he could feel was pain. Every cough rattled his torso, each inhale tasted metallic and tickled his throat, and spit dripped out of his mouth as he curled in on himself. The floor was cool against Stiles’ forehead, which was the only point of comfort his body had at that moment. Stiles’ insides felt like they were scraped raw and if this kept up he was probably going to pass out.

Then, there was nothing, Stiles managed to take a deep breath and keep it, then another, and another. His leg had stopped stinging, His body felt light, tingling. It was weird, like the shiver that goes down your back when you get the feeling someone’s watching you and your body seems to go numb.

His body’s nerves had seemed to calm down and he could finally _focus_.

“What,” He gasped out, watching Derek’s hand slide off his forearm in slow motion, “What are you, oh, the pain-sucky thing, great,” Stiles spared Derek a look, blinking tears out of his eyes and wiping snot from his nose (all in a very dignified and cool way, he was sure), “Thanks, I guess.”

As usual, Derek ignored basic common courtesy and repeated his question from earlier, not losing any of the glower and doom, “What the hell were you doing?”

“I,” Stiles floundered. Wasn’t it kinda obvious what he had been doing? Trying to survive? “Obviously, objective number one was to come out of the closet.”

Stiles ran that back in his head.

“Get. Get out of the closet, preferably alive.”

Which he had done, he had come up with a plan to get out of the closet, get past the monsters, and he’d done it by himself. Scott had obviously been too busy protecting his arrow-toting girlfriend to answer his phone to help, Argent had _obviously_ been too busy protecting his well-trained daughter to come help, and like hell Stiles was going to trust any of those rent-a-werewolves who he didn’t even think were able to sniff out their own asses, and don’t even get him started on Derek, who—

“Wait, what exactly are you doing? Huh?” Stiles burst out, the tickle in his throat coming back as his voice got louder, “You don’t even go here.”

“I was coming to,” Derek motioned toward the faint sounds of shrieking, writhing creatures down the hallway, but shrugged off the rest of his sentence.

Stiles, however, was all too happy to finish it for him, jumping up and down even as his head had begun to swim, and he was pretty sure he had at least second degree burns on his legs and maybe his throat because (holy hell!) it burned to even _breathe_ , and his voice was taking a manic turn, and if he didn’t stop he might just puke.

“What, ‘save me’? Guess what, Stiles can take care of himself, turns out he doesn’t need any werewolves to rescue him—Stiles can do it all by himself. Stiles is a genius, Stiles…Stiles is Buffy.”

Derek’s expression took a sardonic turn, “Fantastic, _Stiles_ can take care of the other two then.”

Stiles face went pale, though not only from the fact that there were three more of these things, but because his stomach had decided to try and jump out of his throat, “If Stiles was feeling a little better, he’d totally be down with that, but Stiles has, I mean, _I, I’ve_ kind of been…on fire. And my head really hurts, I think I might have breathed in some of those—I’mma faint—”

Stiles is fairly certain that Derek was going to catch him before he hit the floor, but Stiles also chose that moment to puke his guts out.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Derek hissed out, grabbing a hold of the back of Stile’s shirt, dragging him toward the nearest exit.

(Later, when Stiles was safely in his own bedroom, physically better, but perhaps not emotionally, he would look at his shirt and wonder exactly how he got vomit on the back of it.)

\--

“Stiles needs medical attention,” He mumbled, mostly to Scott’s shoulder, his lips catching on the fabric and robbing them of much needed moisture.

“You’re getting medical attention.”

“Hm. Stiles gets sexy nurse?”

Scott looked confused and then gave the male paramedic who was treating Stiles’ leg a semi-serious once over.

Scott shrugged, “He’s pretty good-looking, I guess.”

The paramedic raised his eyebrow at Scott, who shrugged sheepishly, before putting an oxygen mask over Stiles mouth, “The poisoning was mild, but it’s still better for him to take it easy. We’ll give him a more thorough check up when we can get him to the hospital. The…other victims take priority though.” The paramedic looked down with a frown, “What, what the hell happened in there?”

“PCP.” Stiles muttered, fumbling with his oxygen mask for a moment before finally getting it off, “Animals on PCP.”

Scott nodded gravely, “It’s been a problem for the past couple of months. First mountain lions and now…bears.”

Stiles nodded, still slightly out of it, “Yeah, huge bears. Trained bears.”

“From the circus!” Scott joined in, “Their abusive owners dosed them with PCP to get a better show. Or, you now, so we heard, from the sheriff.”

Stiles perked up, “Dad okay? Everyone okay?”

Scott smiled down at his friend before looking out across the parking lot, lifting his hand in a wave as he locked eyes with Sheriff Stilinski, nodding his head, “Yeah, man, we got, everyone got out okay. Your dad’s just coordinating with the police and firemen, he knows you’re okay. He’s coming over now.”

Stiles dozed against Scott’s shoulder again with a woozy smile, “Good.”

“I’m glad you got out,” Scott murmured in Stiles’ hair, tightening his grip. “If only because we need to talk about that voice mail that’s on my phone.”

Stiles made a distressed noise, but didn’t say anything and Scott carefully pulled Stiles’ mask back over his mouth.

“But, you know, we’ll wait till you’re better.”

\--

End

**Author's Note:**

> I hope someone enjoyed reading this.


End file.
